


A Sin to Seek

by barbex



Category: Original Work
Genre: Alternate Universe - Magic, M/M, Original Fiction, blowjob, handjob, no slut shaming inside
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-14
Updated: 2021-02-14
Packaged: 2021-03-15 20:28:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,709
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29195322
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/barbex/pseuds/barbex
Summary: Watching Sylvan, the beautiful rogue, dance with someone, shouldn't make Faramund want him. But oh, how he does.
Relationships: Chaste Paladin/Silver-tongued Scoundrel, Original Male Character/Original Male Character
Comments: 20
Kudos: 23
Collections: Chocolate Box - Round 6





	A Sin to Seek

**Author's Note:**

  * For [WolffyLuna](https://archiveofourown.org/users/WolffyLuna/gifts).



> Dear Wolffyluna, all your OW prompts were so great, I wanted to write so many of them. But this one came along in the best way, I hope you like it.

* * *

"If the gentlemen would follow me, please?" The gaudy dress of the butler stands in stark contrast to his arrogant and slightly annoyed expression. He walks ahead, his red silk trousers billowing out behind him, and opens beautifully carved and painted doors for them. "Madame Kelenia will greet you shortly." He waits for them to step through and closes the door behind them.

"Madame Kelenia knows how to make this decaying hunk of a castle look presentable," Sylvan says, picking up a glass of wine from a table. The hall sparkles with light-emitting magic butterflies, fluttering in formations over the dancefloor. Bowls with fireballs bathe everything in golden light and every table, every balustrade is decorated with flowers blooming in slightly unnatural colours. "Must have taken an army of arcane masters to arrange all of this," he says and sips his wine.

Faramund studies the display of wealth. "It just distracts from the sorry state of this place. It's glittering veneer to cover the cracks in the walls."

"You are correct, my dear, like eyeshadow on fading beauty." Sylvan empties his glass and leaves it on the balustrade. "Speaking of fading beauty, I found our target."

Faramund watches Sylvan saunter away and tries to hide in a dark corner, but when he leans against the wall behind a curtain of gently swinging vines, the stucco crumbles under his weight. Brushing the dust from his sleeves, he stays out in the open, the flickering light from a fireball reflecting on his white breastplate with the golden sigil. He watches Sylvan step down to the dancefloor, his hips swinging and his smile shining like the sun itself.

Faramund isn't staring, of course, he's merely observing. He watches Sylvan, as it is his job. It's only the two of them tonight, a simple job of getting into the guest rooms on the upper floor to read a letter. Not even stealing it, just reading it. As their Commander had said, an easy job for Sylvan, who should have no trouble to flirt himself into the bed of some guest. Faramund just went along as support, in case anything goes wrong.

Sylvan is already dancing with the target, he has his arm wrapped around a beautiful man with fashionably braided hair. He isn't quite as young as Sylvan, some streaks of grey wind down his long, dark braid, but dressed in the latest fashion and with hands that never had to work a day in his life, he still looks young and lively. Those noble hands crawl up Sylvan's back and the way Sylvan's hips move in answer to that should be enough to have them thrown out of the castle. 

But Faramund has to admit that Sylvan is hardly the only one who dances like he wants to demonstrate his abilities in more carnal adventures. He is by far the most elegant though. Faramund's cheeks heat in a blush as he watches Sylvan's body, how he undulates his hips and presses his chest against his dancing partner. All the while, Sylvan whispers things into the man's ear. 

His voice is too low to hear what he's saying, but it causes the other's cheeks to blush and to pull his arms tighter around Sylvan. Sylvan giggles and leans into the solid hold of his dancing partner, throwing his head back as he laughs, his long hair tumbling down like an auburn wave. He says something, and the man pulls him back, burying his face in Sylvan's neck. Faramund looks away. 

The pair leave the dancefloor and now approach Faramund's quiet little corner. They don't look at him, don't even notice him. Sylvan is glued to the man's side, it's a miracle that they don't stumble over each other's feet.

"You are magnificent, my dear," Sylvan says as he trails his fingers over the man's cheek. "The way you move, it's invigorating. I have rarely seen such liveliness in someone like you."

"Someone as old as me?" the man asks, a good-natured chuckle in his voice, along with the heaviness of many drinks.

"You're not old," Sylvan purrs, "I meant someone of your noble upbringing. You have the body of a dancer."

The man laughs and pulls Sylvan close again. "Some men despise flattery." He leans into Sylvan's neck and sniffs at him. "But I love it."

"I have many things to tell you, you remarkable stallion," Sylvan murmurs and his gaze lingers on Faramund as he holds the man tight to his chest. "When you move, everything turns into a dance. Your body sings of power and control. " 

Sylvan has an incredible voice, like honey glazing on hot meat, sweet and savoury. He keeps looking at Faramund as he speaks. "When you smile, I wonder if there has ever been light like this and how I've been blessed to see it." His hand strokes through the nobleman's hair, but his eyes never leave Faramund. "Watching you is like seeing a glorious fruit, ripe for picking, but forbidden."

"You can pick me anytime," the man slurs into Sylvan's neck.

"Oh, I will my dear, I'm gonna take good care of you," Sylvan purrs, winking at Faramund. 

Faramund swallows hard. Despite his strict beliefs, his body easily betrays him when Sylvan purrs like this. In moments like these, his heart beats too fast, and he yearns to hear those words meant for him, to feel those hands on his skin. 

"I'm thirsty," Sylvan announces, drawing the attention of a serving girl. "Are you thirsty too, my dear?" He turns back to the pretty man and trails his finger along his jawline. 

"You bet I'm thirsty," the man slurs, his tongue heavy. He licks all over Sylvan's face, leaving a trail of spit on his cheek and down his neck. Faramund recoils and looks away to train his features back into a neutral expression. He's not supposed to give away that Sylvan and he know each other and he shouldn't care anyway. Sylvan can do what he wants, even if it means that he giggles and laughs and presses wet kisses on the man's cheek. 

Faramund breathes in deeply to calm himself. He will not let himself be distracted from the mission by his trousers feeling tight. Even if Sylvan takes a glass from the serving girl and puts some of the sparkly wine in his mouth, to make the man drink it from his mouth. Even when they laugh and giggle as the man sucks on Sylvan's mouth, drooling and dripping all over himself. Even when Sylvan seems to enjoy it so much that he moans into the man's mouth.

"I feel..., oh,  _ oh _ !" The man looks around with glassy eyes, staring at the floating butterflies as if he sees them for the first time. "Look at those pretty things," he mumbles and then turns back to Sylvan. "And you! You're such a pretty thing." He purses his lips but trips as he leans towards Sylvan.

"Oh, darling!" Sylvan calls out, his laughter clear and bright like a water spring. "How about we take this upstairs?" His hand slips into the man's trousers and slowly rubs up and down. "I want to do so many things to you."

Faramund's ears burn, but his heart hurts. All the rules he set up for himself don't stop him from wanting what he can never have. Sylvan will never touch him like this, and Faramund shouldn't want him to. But he does.

The man lets out a sultry laugh as he throws his head back and thrusts his hips against Sylvan's hand. He fumbles in his pocket and pulls out a key on a string. "Let's go to... to my room." He dangles the key in front of Sylvan's eyes and turns to go. But without holding onto Sylvan, his balance is off and he almost falls into a bowl with a fireball. 

"Sir, could you help me, please?" Sylvan's voice is perfectly polite and Faramund blinks before he realizes that Sylvan speaks to him. The man has draped himself over Sylvan and slobbers over his neck.

"Ehm, yes, of course." He meets Sylvan's eyes and the mischievous twinkle in them makes Faramund's heart skip a beat. 

"Thank you, sir, If you would take his left side, I'll take the other."

Faramund lifts the man's arm over his shoulder and drags him to a standing position. He protests only a little at losing contact with Sylvan's neck. Sylvan takes his other arm, giggling and cooing at the man who seems to be barely able to keep his eyes open. The key still dangles from the string in his hand and the enchantment on it opens the doors to the upper levels for them, silently and discreetly. An elevator, hissing with steam and magic, takes them up to the exclusive guest wing. 

As the cabin moves up in a cloud of steam, Sylvan presses the elegant man against the cabin wall and kisses him. The man doesn't open his eyes but his body reacts accordingly, his erection bulging his trousers and hips thrusting against Sylvan's. Faramund stares as Sylvan rubs his clearly visible erection against the man's, mesmerized by the steady movements of Sylvan's perfect arse. 

When Faramund drags his eyes away from Sylvan's back, he freezes. Sylvan looks at him, a grin playing on his lips even as he drags his mouth over the other man's jawline. Embarrassment rushes like fire up Faramund's neck, and he's getting painfully hard in the confines of his leathers. But he can't look away.

The cabin door rattles open and Faramund pulls the weight of the man back onto his shoulder, avoiding having to look at Sylvan. Halfway up the thickly carpeted hallway, the man sags, his knees giving out under him. Sylvan stumbles, and Faramund needs all his strength to keep them all upright.

"There," Sylvan says, pointing at the door next to them. "That's his room, and he's already out. Couldn't have timed this better." He picks the key from the man's hand and leans against the doorframe to open it. 

They carry the man into the room, his feet dragging over the ground, and Sylvan stumbles again. With a last heave, the man drops onto the massive bed in the middle of the room, Sylvan falling on top of him and Faramund almost onto him.

"Sorry about that," Sylvan says, pinching his nose as he sits up.

Faramund frowns. "Are you drunk? You said you wouldn't get drunk on a job." The rogue doesn't have many principles, but this is one of the few he usually adheres to.

Sylvan has his eyes closed and straightens his back, his chest moving with deep breaths. "I'm not drunk, but the antidote I took for the sleeping drought makes me a bit dizzy."

Of course, the sleeping drought had been in the drink he had the man suck from his mouth. Sylvan kept his promise, he didn't get drunk. 

Faramund stares at Sylvan, how his chest heaves, how his long hair falls over his shoulders and frames his beautiful face. With his eyes closed, he looks like a god come to life. A god that Faramund has seen in his dreams. When Sylvan opens his eyes, deep blue and looking directly into his heart, Faramund can't turn away. 

"Faramund," Sylvan whispers.

Faramund realizes with a delay that he leans over Sylvan, his hands hovering over his shoulders as if he wants to stroke Sylvan's hair. He quickly straightens, turning his back to Sylvan to hide his blush, and stalks over to the desk. "The letter, yes, it must be here somewhere."

He pulls out drawers to search, even though everything blurs in front of his eyes. The blood in his ears rushes so loud that he doesn't hear Sylvan approaching.

"Faramund, please," Sylvan murmurs right next to his ear, a hint of amusement in his voice.

Faramund swallows a curse against his body, which reacts to Sylvan's closeness with hot desire heating his veins. Predictably. "What? What do you want?"

A hand sneaks over Faramund's chest, tracing the golden sigil on the breastplate. "I know you've been watching me all night."

He can't suppress a shiver, feeling Sylvan's breath on his neck. "That was my part of the job." Faramund busies his hands with the pile of papers on top of the desk. "The job we're here for, remember?"

Sylvan turns away, leaving Faramund standing. Faramund trembles, his body, his treacherous body longing to feel Sylvan's touch, and he holds onto the desk to steady himself.

"Yes, I remember the job," Sylvan says and saunters back to the bed. He throws himself on it, on the side not occupied by a drugged up nobleman, and picks up a piece of paper from the bedside table. "And I believe it's this one." He holds it out to Faramund and pinches his nose. "Would you read it? My eyesight is still a bit wobbly."

Faramund walks over to the bed, his erection painfully pressing against his trousers with every step. And Sylvan knows it. He stares, unashamed, at Faramund's bulge.

When he takes the letter from him, Sylvan finally looks into his eyes. "I will never understand you."

"What is this about?" Faramund growls at him, the letter in his hand forgotten. "Why do you aggravate me so? Do you enjoy seeing me flustered so much?"

"A little, yes." Sylvan grins, carding a hand through his hair. His soft, long, dark hair. "A lot, actually."

Faramund aches to touch that hair, to know what it feels like to have the strands slip through his fingers. He looks down on the letter but the words melt into each other in front of his eyes and he squeezes them shut. "I just don't understand."

Sylvan sits up and leans forward to look at him. His mischievous grin is gone, and the expression on his face softens. He looks curious, possibly confused, and that's even worse. Sylvan, without his usual mask of the dashing rogue, looks painfully vulnerable. And even more beautiful.

"Tell me," Sylvan says, his voice without any hint of his usual teasing, "tell me what bothers you."

"How... how can you just give yourself to anybody, without care for what it could mean?" Heat rushes up Faramund's neck again.

"My dearest Faramund, of course I care." Sylvan smiles and leans back. "I care for the joy, the celebration of beauty and freedom. I care about the harmony, the desire, the ecstasy that people can find with each other." He gets up, holding onto the wall for balance. "I know you don't understand. You think this is wrong, that I'm cheapening myself." 

He takes a few careful steps over to Faramund until he can put his palm on his cheek. His hands aren't soft, calluses from his bow scratch against the stubble on Faramund's cheek. "But I'm not." He looks into Faramund's eyes, his thumb drawing a soft circle. "I'm giving myself so easily because I'm celebrating the joy. Such intimacy is not just pretty veneer on a natural act, something changes when you let it happen. And I'm sorry for you because you might never feel this intimacy, never experience this joy. You might never understand." 

Sylvan's hand slides from Faramund's cheek and drops to his side. He smiles once more, a genuinely sad smile, and then turns away. With a desperate breath, Faramund grabs his arm before he can reach the door.

Watching Faramund's hand on his arm, Sylvan stops and turns around. He doesn't ask the question, but he obviously waits for Faramund to answer it.

"What if..." Faramund fights for the words to come. "What if I want to?"

Sylvan's eyes narrow as he looks at Faramund. "You'd have to be more specific."

Faramund stares at Sylvan, fighting for a breath. He raises his hand and touches Sylvan's hair, one long stroke from the top to the end on his back, feeling the heat of his body through the fabric underneath. Just looking at Sylvan, touching him, has his chest constricting in painful longing. "I... I want..."

A soft smile spreads on Sylvan's face and he takes a step closer, putting his hand flat on Faramund's breastplate. He studies Faramund's face with a curious smile as he moves his hand up and touches the side of his neck, where the shirt leaves him bare. "Is that your pulse I'm feeling there? Your heart beating fast like a scared rabbit?"

Faramund can only nod.

"I don't want you to be scared." Sylvan's thumb rubs gently over Faramund's throat. "I want you to feel joy."

"I..." Faramund swallows and stares at Sylvan's lips. "I don't know how."

"Let me make this easier for you." Sylvan takes Faramund's hand and kisses his knuckles. "All you have to say is yes or no, can you do that?"

"Yes." 

Sylvan lets go of his hand and holds his hands behind his back. "Do you want me to touch you?"

"Yes."

With a grin, Sylvan moves a tiny bit closer, his breath flowing over Faramund's face. "Do you want me to kiss you?"

Faramund's mouth is too dry, his "Yes" is barely a whisper.

Sylvan presses his lips to Faramund's, gently nibbling and licking, until Faramund opens his mouth and then Sylvan  _ really _ kisses him. He devours him, his hand tangling in the hair at the back of his neck, holding him as he leans in, and his other hand caressing the side of Faramund's face. The things he does with his tongue in Faramund's mouth make his knees go weak and somehow, without him noticing how it happens, he ends up pressed against the wall. 

A sound crawls up from deep in his chest, a moan that feels like a release. He presses against Sylvan's mouth, trying his best to keep up with the slide of his tongue and the soft rubbing of his lips and the way Sylvan can suck on his lips while his fingers stroke the shell of his ear and Faramund's hips snap forward as if they have a life of their own and he — 

"Breathe, my friend, breathe." Sylvan lets go of his lips and holds his head in both hands, watching him intently. "We don't have to do more than this, you know?"

Faramund takes in gulps of air, staring into Sylvan's eyes. As his head clears, realisation settles around him like a warm coat. He has already decided. The moment for denial has long passed.

"I want more."

Sylvan smiles, brighter than the sun. He slides his hand down and cups Faramund's bulging erection through the leather of his trousers. "Can I touch this?"

"Yes," Faramund growls, his voice unrecognisable in its rasp. 

Biting his lip, Sylvan goes down on his knees and carefully unties the laces of Faramund's trousers. He keeps looking in his eyes, blindly sliding his hand into the gap to pull Faramund's cock free. Still watching him, he presses a kiss to the tip and an embarrassingly loud moan breaks out of Faramund, making him slap his hand over his mouth in shock.

"Darling," Sylvan says with a soft purr. "Don't cover your mouth, I want to hear you." He watches until Faramund takes his hand from his mouth and then licks a slow trail up Faramund's cock. 

Faramund's breath hitches and another noise escapes him, something that sounds like a desperate whine, and he can't even catalogue his feelings and reactions as Sylvan licks upwards again.

A grunt from the bed has them both freeze and stare at the drugged man sleeping.

"Don't worry," Sylvan says. "He won't wake up for several hours."

Faramund looks down at Sylvan on his knees and swallows hard. The view of Sylvan looking up to him fills him with a feral hum of  _ want. _ Sylvan has that damning smirk on his lips again, and then he wraps those lips around the tip of Faramund's cock and Faramund's world shrinks to the tight heat of Sylvan's mouth. 

Minutes, hours, ages later, Faramund hears himself panting and whining in need, his own voice foreign to him. Sylvan's head bobs up and down, his cheeks hollowing, his lips stretching wet and pink around Faramund's cock. Pleasure curls in Faramund's stomach, his body tensing like a spring.

Sylvan opens his mouth and lets Faramund's cock slip from his mouth. Faramund can't stop the whine leaving him, his climax that had been building staying frustratingly out of reach. 

"Why? Don't stop, please!" Faramund pleads.

Sylvan swallows his words with a burning kiss, pressing Faramund against the wall. Somehow he has freed his erection and his cock presses against Faramund's, silky and hard. Sylvan deepens the kiss, claiming Faramund's mouth, making him taste himself. He leaves his lips and kisses along Faramund's jawline, down his neck and slowly undulates his hips, rubbing his erection against Faramund's.

The feeling is maddening, soft and steady, keeping Faramund in a desperate state of arousal.

"Sylvan!" 

Sylvan chuckles and kisses along Faramund's clavicle. He slows the circular movement of his hips even more, keeping up just the barest of friction. "Yes?" 

"Please, please..." Faramund wraps his arms around Sylvan, desperate for more contact, more closeness. 

Sylvan leans into Faramund's neck, his lips moving over the soft skin. "Do you understand now?"

"Understand?"

Sylvan's hand sneaks between their bodies and his calloused fingers wrap around both their erections. With firm, quick strokes, he builds the pleasure back up, holding them both on the precipice for several minutes. Faramund trembles, his head buzzing. He moves his hands up, tangling his fingers into Sylvan's hair as he presses his forehead against his.

"What should I understand?"

"This," Sylvan says and grabs their erections firmer, twisting his wrist as he rubs them both faster and Faramund comes with a scream that Sylvan catches in a desperate kiss. He follows Faramund over the edge with a groan, their combined seed dripping over his hand.

Panting hard, Faramund wipes a strand of hair from Sylvan's face and kisses him, softly. 

Sylvan looks at him, for once seeming a bit insecure. "Do you now? Understand me?"

"Yes," Faramund says and smiles. "I might need more instructions though."

Sylvan grins. "That can be provided, my dear."


End file.
